


And Then There Was Cas

by miss_grey



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Canon, Angst, Bad headspace, Blood, Blood and Gore, Canon Temporary Character Death, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Castiel's Handprint, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family, Fluff, Hell Flashbacks, Homophobic Language, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, Internalized Misogyny, M/M, Nightmares, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Profound Bond, Soul Bond, Team Free Will, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-23
Updated: 2016-05-22
Packaged: 2018-03-31 21:32:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 24
Words: 19,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3993586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miss_grey/pseuds/miss_grey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Profound Bond: A bond forged between a man's soul and an angel's Grace in the depths of Hell, that endured the battles of Earth, the detachment of Heaven, and the hopelessness of Purgatory.</p>
<p>A fix-it fic for all of those times we wondered "Where is Cas?"  Missing or extended destiel scenes for EVERY SINGLE EPISODE from 4x01 to 10x23.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Ascent

**Author's Note:**

> My heart was crying by the end of 10x23. This was my response. May all of our destiel hearts be satisfied. This is going to be a very long story--one chapter per episode. Can be read in conjunction with my fic "Angels Are Watching Over You," in which I wrote Castiel's observations of every episode from s1-s3.

 

 

There were fires and ice so cold that it burned.  Both bit into the heart of Castiel’s wings and tore pieces of himself away.  All around him, his brothers were smote down by the elements and the demons that guarded the depths of Hell.  Castiel felt the weight of his existence, and knew that the end was near, but still he pushed on. 

Soon, he reached the edge of the Abyss, and found the grimmest evidence of Hell’s tortures there.  Amid the blood and ash, and bone, and ever-present sulfurous stench, he perceived a shining light, the purest that he’d ever seen, fighting desperately against the tendrils of darkness that wound around it, determined to swallow it whole.

As Castiel came closer, he realized the light that he saw was the soul of a man burning brightly in the darkness.  It was the soul of the Righteous Man he had been sent to save, continuing to shine, defiantly, even as it was torn and tormented, and holding a bloody blade, paused in the midst of torture.  _Dean Winchester._ The name nudged at the edge of Castiel’s consciousness, but the soul before him transcended a thing as simple as that.  It was strong, and defiant.  And full of love.  Shadows crept nearer, and there were cracks in the soul; parts of it had been shredded and frayed.  Still, the soul before him, in the shape of a man, stood tall, yet began to quake at his approach. 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The creature shone so brightly that it hurt to look at—it was a torment unlike any other that Dean had endured during his forty years in Hell—and yet he could not bear to look away.  The creature was pure and radiant, and the soul that had once been Dean Winchester quaked before its awful magnificence.   This was the end.  The creature would surely burn him out for good, and leave less than a memory of Dean’s pain and existence behind.  All of the good, all of the bad—gone.  Less than a whisper in the Pit.

The creature was Dean’s destruction, a fiery emblem of the beginning and the end, and yet Dean stood before it like a single candle, wavering between shying away, and grasping for it anyway.  The creature came forward and Dean choked on all of his pain and regret, and his fingers trembled as he reached out.  The creature’s wings fanned out all around them, blocking the darkness of Hell with their radiance, and then it stepped closer, and the very fabric of the Abyss trembled.  The creature enveloped Dean, and for the first time in what felt like a millennia, Dean was weightless.  The creature took the weight of all of his sins and pain, and terrible, terrible love; the creature shouldered it for him.  The creature held him tightly, securely, cradled Dean’s soul in its hands, and Dean surrendered. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

The battered and broken soul clung to him on the ascent, twining its shredded parts into his Grace like grasping fingers.  Castiel could feel its pain like it was his own.  The soul burrowed into him, fearful but trusting.  It hurt to hold close something so formerly pure, and now so fragmented.  Still, he held the soul tightly and flew them both out of the darkness and into the light. 

 

Back on Earth, in the dark closeness of a shallow grave, Castiel tenderly, reverently rebuilt Dean’s body.  First, he assembled the molecules into things like strong bones and veins and muscles that all worked in the way that God had first fashioned.  Then he lovingly placed each imperfection back upon the body, wonder filling his being as he did so.  But there was a new mark, not a blemish—no, nothing so ugly as that.  But a mark, an imprint, of Castiel’s Grace, where it had held tight to the soul, where the soul had refused to let him go.  There was a moment when Castiel hovered in the midst of indecision—should he erase the evidence of such a harrowing experience, or should he leave it?  As he beheld the handprint mark on Dean’s shoulder, Castiel felt a responding tug somewhere deep in his own being.  Yes, he would leave it.  Only after the body was restored to perfect health and function did Castiel carefully press Dean’s soul back into it.  The soul struggled and clung to him for a moment longer, but then it went.  Castiel leaned forward, and with just a touch to the body, breathed life back into Dean Winchester.


	2. Lazarus Rising

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lazarus Rising is probably still my favorite episode. I hope you all enjoy :)

 

 

 

Dean woke to darkness and thin, stale air.  His shoulders were pressed tight to the rough wooden walls surrounding him, and the only sounds were his rapid, shallow breathing, and his thundering pulse.  He knew where he was.  Without a doubt, he knew.

He screamed, and he clawed, and it wasn’t enough.  Jesus Christ, he was gonna die _again,_ wasn’t he?  Or maybe this was still Hell.

Somehow, he managed to pull himself out of his own grave.  The sunlight burnt his eyes, and the air felt strange on his too-sensitive skin.  But the real shock was the destruction that surrounded him; trees flattened in a circle around him, with his grave at the epicenter, the grass charred and dead. 

Dean’s brain whirred too fast, struggling to find answers, but coming up with none.  And so he walked.  With each step Dean took, he settled a bit more into his own skin, and accepted that the sunlight, the air in his lungs, the dirt under his boots—it was all real.  He was here.  Alive.  But… how?  The only explanation he could think of was not a nice one.

 

 

 

Dean was almost afraid to look, but more afraid not to, so he pulled his shirt up and got his first glimpse at the unmarred, pristine skin that stretched across his abdomen, marked only by the tattoo that kept the demons out.  Funny, that.  His body felt whole and healthy, with the exception of the shakes brought on by trauma, and the dehydration induced from lying in a pine box.  But a deep pain throbbed in Dean’s left shoulder, so reluctantly he rolled his sleeve up and glanced into the mirror.  He sucked in a startled breath, not because of the hand-shaped scar that branded his shoulder, but because the sight of it struck something deep in his belly, and shook him. 

Hell flashed through Dean’s mind, and he shuddered.  A bright light.  Wings.  Something awful and terrifying.  Well, there was no denying it now. 

A demon had pulled Dean out of Hell. 

Even though Dean knew that it would mean terrible things, he found himself feeling almost…grateful.  He skimmed his fingers over the handprint, and felt a strange thrumming deep within himself.  His eyes fluttered closed and he shivered.

Well, fuck.            

 

* * *

 

 

Castiel watched Dean Winchester closely, and was gladdened.  The Righteous Man was whole and healthy, and _alive,_ and he was radiant still, even in his human body. 

_Dean._

The word brought catastrophe, each time it was spoken, tearing the air and shattering glass.  It was enough to make mere mortals bleed.

Castiel longed to reach out to Dean, but he could not.  Not like this.  They existed on separate wavelengths.

 

* * *

 

 

Dean dreamt.  It was almost like he was dead again.  Blood.  Cold.  Fire.  Ash.  Blood.  Screaming.  _SCREAMING.  BLOOD._ Wings.  Oh God, _WINGS._

Dean woke, choking on his own breath.

 

* * *

 

 

The spell scratched at him, tugging, howling.  Castiel ignored it.  No human in the world could command him thusly if he chose not to heed the call.  He was busy learning his new vessel, the body of Jimmy Novak, a good, God-fearing man from Pontiac, Illinois. 

The magic in the spell screamed against his vessel’s skin, tugged at his Grace.  Castiel grimaced with his newly-acquired facial muscles.  It felt strange.

_Castiel._

Castiel’s attention shifted then.  He would recognize that voice anywhere.  Dean’s summons shivered through his very being, and Castiel stopped resisting.  He felt the man’s soul call out to him, frightened, but determined.  Castiel went to him willingly, happily, with anticipation.

 

* * *

 

 

The lights shattered in a rain of sparks, their glow casting flashing, eerie shadows against the barn walls.  Across the distance of open space, the barn doors creaked and broke open.  Dean held his breath.

A man walked in.  Stiff shoulders, measured, deliberate steps.  Suit and trench coat, flared just slightly by the storm.  Sparks rained down on him, but didn’t faze him.  Neither did the shotgun.  Or the wards.  His eyes were fixed firmly on Dean.

Of course he wasn’t just a man.  This was _Castiel._ He was terrifying and ethereal, and definitely not human.  Dean thought his heart might explode—with fear, with awe, with a strange longing for the creature that had dragged him out of the Pit and left his mark on him.  He nearly shook with the effort of keeping his emotions at bay, but he felt an affinity for this demon, a weird desire to be close to him, to touch him, just once.  Dean almost regretted what he was about to do.

 

* * *

 

 

 

Dean was strong, and tall, and so vibrant.  Castiel could see his soul, even with his human eyes.  Each step he took brought him closer to the Righteous Man.  Yes.  This is where he was meant to be.  Nothing else mattered in that moment.

 

* * *

 

 

Nothing worked.  Nothing stopped him.  Not the bullets or the salt, or even the knife.  Dean wasn’t sure he wanted Castiel to be stopped.  He was alien, other-worldly, almost…divine.  His bright blue eyes looked into Dean and _saw him._ And Dean remembered the Pit, remembered this being holding Dean close and slaughtering all the demons that pursued them.  Dean remembered thinking that this creature was the most beautiful, most destructive thing that he’d ever seen.  Dean remembered reaching for him anyway.

Castiel’s words shivered through Dean’s bones.

_“I’m the one who gripped you tight and raised you from Perdition.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's the point of this story? That a little destiel can make anything better.


	3. Are You There, God?  It's Me, Dean Winchester

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm already having so much fun :)

 

 

 

This is not the first time that Castiel has come to Dean in his dreams. 

Sometimes, Dean dreams of Hell, and Castiel is there.  He is fury and he is light, and he smites every demon that comes near Dean.  He wraps his giant wings around Dean, and holds him tight, and Dean can breathe again.

Sometimes it’s just impressions.  Blue eyes.  The black shadows of giant wings.  Strength.  Fire.  A deep voice.

Sometimes, Dean’s afraid of Castiel.  Afraid of what Castiel stands for, and what his presence means.  Dean’s afraid of the way that Castiel says his name so easily, so familiarly, like they’ve known each other forever.  Of course they haven’t.

Sometimes Dean wakes from a nightmare and he’s alone in his bed, and the room is dark and empty.  But he has the feeling that if he’d opened his eyes just a moment before, Castiel would have been there, next to Dean, still keeping the demons at bay.  Dean doesn’t like to think about that too much.  It makes something hot and uncomfortable tremble underneath his skin.

Sometimes Dean wakes up and the handprint on his shoulder is burning, and Dean can’t catch his breath, and he _hurts._

This is not the first time that Castiel has come to Dean in his dreams, but it’s the first time that Dean begins to wonder if maybe these visits are real. 

Castiel crowds too close to him in the silent stillness of Bobby’s kitchen, and tells Dean about seals, and the Apocalypse, and Lucifer.  He tells Dean that he’s a warrior of Heaven, and that it’s not his job to perch on Dean’s shoulder.  His eyes are filled with holy fire, and his words carry celestial weight.  Dean knows that he’s standing in the presence of an Angel of the Lord, of a being ancient and unfathomable. 

Dean knows that everything Castiel says is true.  And yet, when Castiel threatens to throw Dean back into Hell, Dean doesn’t believe him.


	4. In The Beginning

 

 

Dean felt like his world was ending all over again, and he _hated_ Castiel for it.  He’d seen his mother and father, he’d talked to them, and grown to love them in a whole new way, and he’d let them slip through his fingers.  He’d stared Azazel down, promised to kill him, and in the end, he’d let the bastard walk.  He’d traveled back in time, witnessed true evil, and real love, and it hadn’t changed a thing. 

Back in the motel room, Dean rounded on Castiel angrily, bitterness and betrayal pumping through his blood.  “And after all that, they still died?!”  Dean growled, his hands curling into fists at his sides.

Castiel stared back at Dean, big blue eyes wide and clear, but without a single trace of humanity in them.  His attempt at comforting Dean was stilted.  “Don’t be too hard on yourself.  You couldn’t have stopped it.”

Dean sucked in a breath, and his eyes narrowed dangerously.  “What do you mean?”

Castiel’s voice was so damned matter of fact when he said “Destiny can’t be changed, Dean.”

Dean felt Hell rise up within him, and he stalked forward another step toward the angel.  He almost wanted to _hurt_ him for the deception.  “So you mean to tell me that you already _knew_ what was gonna happen?”

“Yes.”

“And you didn’t tell me?!”  Dean’s fingernails bit into his palms with the force of holding back his rage.

“I didn’t think you’d listen to me.”

“Son of a bitch!”  Dean snarled, but he forced himself to turn away, forced himself to reign in the urge to _hit, hurt, KILL._ “What was the point, then?!  What was the point of all that?  Did you just think it’d be funny to watch me try?!”

Castiel tilted his head to the side, and his eyes narrowed in what might have been hurt, what might have even been sympathy, on anyone else.  “Of course not, Dean.  The fact that you always _do_ try…I find that to be an admirable quality.”

And he seemed so fucking sincere, that Dean’s rage drained away as quickly as it had come, and his shoulders slumped in defeat.  “Then why couldn’t you just be upfront with me, man?  And stop talking in so many damn riddles?”

Castiel’s eyes shuttered then, and he held himself straighter.  He looked away, and Dean felt a hollowness in his bones when it happened.  “This is a war, Dean.  I’m not permitted to say everything I might like to.”


	5. Metamorphosis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The episode is called "Metamorphosis" and it struck me as particularly powerful that this episode was not just about a man turning into a rugaru, but Castiel turning into Cas.

 

 

Dean was so angry, and had been for so long, he wondered if he’d ever be calm again.  The blood pounded in his ears as he stalked toward his brother.  “Why did an angel tell me to stop you?”

Sam’s breath hitched.  “What?”

“Cas said that if I don’t stop you, he will.”

The name rolled off his tongue, unintentionally, but so easy, almost as though he’d been saying it for years.  It was probably a blasphemy, to butcher the name of something so holy.  An Angel of the Lord.  But it didn’t _feel_ like disrespect.  Instead, it felt familiar.  And it set one angel apart.

Sam’s shocked, hurt face looked back at Dean.  He saw it, and he felt it, but his mind had momentarily been derailed.  He was still mad at the angel who had pulled him out of Hell, but he also thought that maybe he was starting to understand a little of what they might be facing.  The name had come forth, completely unbidden, but the sound of it rang true.  Not always Castiel, but “Cas.”  That sort of sounded like maybe it could mean friend.


	6. Monster Movie

 

 

Dean came back without any of his old scars.  Without any of the old breaks in his fingers.  That scar from the botched ghoul hunt when he was fifteen, slashed across his upper thigh.  The countless thin white scars on his arms from all the times he’d bled himself for the job.  The circle of puckered flesh on the bottom of his left foot from that time he’d stepped on a rusty nail in an abandoned house.  He and John had salted and burned the poltergeist’s body easy enough, but then he’d had to go to the doctor for a tetanus shot, and he still remembers being embarrassed about that.  Watching his father’s impatient, disappointed face while they waited in the hospital waiting room.

All of those marks were gone, erased, healed.  When Dean had come back from Hell, he’d found their absence strange and slightly unnerving, but now he gave it more thought.  His body had been in ribbons from the Hell hounds when he’d died.  And then he’d been in the ground _for months._ He’d already made peace with the fact that somehow the forces of Heaven had resurrected him, but now he began to wonder _exactly how_ they’d done it.

In his dreams, he almost remembered.  It was something less than a memory, but more than a feeling.  In his dreams, it was a bright, soothing light that pieced him back together.  He remembered being held.  He remembered feeling safe.  He almost remembered the touch of ethereal fingers on his face, and the slow rise of new lungs.

He won’t ask, and he won’t say his thoughts out loud.  But Dean thought that it was probably Cas.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“A little while ago, I had this… let’s call it near death experience.  Very near.  And, uh, when I came to, things were different.  My life’s been different.  I realized that I help people.  Not just help them.  I save them.  It’s awesome.  It’s kind of like a gift.  Like a mission.  Kind of like a mission from God.”

The words felt heavy when Dean said them.  They weren’t supposed to be that way.  It was supposed to be easy, picking up chicks.  It always had been.  But there was too much honesty in what he said this time, and it made him squirm in his seat.  Jamie was a cool girl, but what could she really know about Hell?  And missions from God? 

Jesus, Dean didn’t even feel human anymore.  Would _anyone_ ever actually understand what it had been like for him?  What he’d gone through?  What he’d _done?_

There was one person who knew.  Who’d seen Dean at his worst, covered in blood, smiling through the torment.

God, he was so fucked.  Dean couldn’t even think about being alive anymore without thinking about Cas.


	7. Yellow Fever

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always imagined Dean praying to Cas, even this early on.

 

 

Dean wasn’t the praying type, but he was praying now.  He was praying to a force he’d never believed in.  A force that was unexplainable, inexplicable, and now undeniably real.  It started with a passing thought.  A burst of anxiety, and then… _please help me._ But he wasn’t praying to God.  Lord knows, God never helped Dean Winchester or answered any of his prayers.  But there was _one_ being who _had_ saved Dean.  One being that Dean’s subconscious reached out for.  A fierce, bright force, a warrior, the one who had strode so fearlessly through Hell to get to him.  The one who had pulled him from the depths of the Pit.  _Help me.  Save me.  Please, don’t let me go out like this.  Not again.  I can’t go back there._ Dean didn’t expect an answer.  But still, he thought that maybe he might get one anyway. 

He could hear the Hell hounds coming, could feel the fires of Hell licking at his skin.    No help was coming.  He wasn’t gonna be saved.  Lilith whispered in his ear.  Dean grasped the Bible close, and he prayed.  He begged.  _Cas, if you’re out there.  Please.  Don’t let me die.  Don’t let me go back down there.  Castiel, please.  Save me._

Dean was saved by the people who loved him; Sam and Bobby refused to let him go.  But even after he found out what had happened, Dean wondered if maybe Heaven hadn’t helped them, just a little bit.


	8. It's the Great Pumpkin, Sam Winchester

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Their conversations in this episode always seemed so dangerous to me.

 

 

 

Hell was just below the surface, always.  Screaming in his belly, clawing its way up his throat, bubbling under his skin.  He couldn’t get away from it. 

 

* * *

 

 

 

They’d just come back from interviewing the art teacher, and Sam walked into their room, drawing his gun and shouting as he went.

Dean knew Castiel was there before he saw him.  He could _feel_ him.  And of course, Dean was right.  The angel was in the room waiting for them, and his eyes went to Dean as soon as he entered.  Dean never got used to it.  All that power, all that light, pressed into the body of a man, reflected out of sorrowful blue eyes.  Whenever Cas looked at Dean, Dean knew that the angel was seeing into his soul. 

It made him uncomfortable to know that there was a person in this world that could _see_ him so clearly.  But it also gave Dean a level of assurance to know that no matter how broken, how dirty his soul was, an honest to God Angel of the Lord could look at him without recoiling. 

And on top of everything else, Castiel managed to save him again, so simply, by pulling a hex bag out of their wall.  But of course, this case was never going to be that easy.  They were in the middle of their discussion, finding out what Cas was doing there, when another man began to speak, loud and authoritative.  Dean hadn’t paid him much attention before, but now he knew he should have—this other person was obviously also an angel.

Dean glanced at the new angel and snarled “Who are you and why should I care?”

Thankfully, it was Cas who answered him, saying “This is Uriel.  He’s what you might call a specialist.”

Dean eyed the newcomer warily before turning his attention back to Castiel.  “What kind of specialist?  What are you gonna do?”

Castiel’s face gave less away than a human’s would, but Dean could still see the play of thoughts, maybe even emotions flutter over his features.  “You, both of you, you need to leave this town immediately.”

Dean’s stomach clenched like he’d just taken a nosedive off a cliff without warning.  “Why?”

Castiel’s face went blank when he said “Because we’re about to destroy it.”

The room erupted after that statement, and the walls vibrated with desperation and angry words.  The argument went on and on, but Dean couldn’t help appealing to Cas, hoping that he was right about the angel.  Hoping that there was more to him than righteousness and violence.

Castiel always got too close to Dean.  He had no sense of personal space, but Dean couldn’t make this throat work properly enough to mention it.  His attention was caught in the angel’s fathomless eyes.  Castiel’s voice was deep, and it vibrated through Dean’s chest when the angel said “We have no choice.”

And that just pissed Dean off, because _really?!_ That was the worst fucking excuse in all of history, used over and over again, worn out by now.  “Of course you have a choice!” Dean growled.  “I mean, come on, you’ve never questioned a crap order?”  He could feel the rage of Hell welling up inside him.  “What are you, just a couple of hammers?”

There was a lot of yelling then, and threats.  Dean snarled “If you’re gonna smite this whole town, you’re gonna have to smite us with it.”  Then he changed tactics, casting his eyes on Cas, pleading “We could do this.  We will find that witch and we will stop the summoning.”

Uriel was incensed, and he strode forward, ready to strike.  “Castiel!”  He shouted, “We will not let these….”

“Enough!” Castiel roared, and his voice managed to stop Uriel in his tracks, and choke back his protests.  Castiel’s eyes settled on Dean.  “I suggest you move quickly.”  And Dean sighed in relief, because that was more than he thought they might get.

 

* * *

 

 

 

Back in the Impala, Sam was suffering a crisis of faith, and though Dean thought it was a long time in coming, he did his best to soothe his baby brother, saying “Hey, just because there’s a couple bad apples doesn’t mean the whole barrel’s rotten.”  But the words felt wrong in his mouth.  Poisonous.  Ungrateful.  Castiel’s blue eyes flashed through his mind, then a bright light, and a handprint seared into his skin. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

They sat in a park, under the shade of an 80 year old tree, and contemplated their orders.  Argued back and forth as they were wont to do.  They’d been stationed together for a very long time.  Still, Castiel was commanding this mission, and so he sought to cut off Uriel’s arguments, saying “The decision’s been made.”  And that was the end of it.  Or should have been, but Uriel refused to relent.

“By a mud monkey,” the other angel grumbled, still angry.

Castiel’s borrowed spine stiffened and he felt his own anger begin to rise.  “You shouldn’t call them that.”  Uriel argued more for his cause, but Castiel ignored his words, his focus diverted instead to thoughts of Dean Winchester.  “There’s a reason we were sent to save him.”  Flashes of Hell fire and demon smoke swirled through Castiel’s consciousness.  “He has potential.  He may succeed here.”  He remembered how tightly the soul of the Righteous Man had clung to him on their ascent from the Pit.  How Castiel’s Grace had shouted out in triumph at his victory and Dean’s closeness.  “At any rate, it’s out of our hands.”

Uriel wanted to drag Dean out of the town, but Castiel absolutely refused.  He found himself for the first time questioning Uriel’s loyalty.  The angel wanted to disobey their orders, and lay waste to the town anyway.  Did his dislike of Dean Winchester really run that deep?  If so, _why?_  

Yes, Dean was violent and disrespectful.  He drank too much and he lied.  But Castiel had seen his soul, had held it close to his Grace.  He knew that there was so much more to the man than stubborn irreverence.  He was also full of love, and determination.  He was redeemable.  He _had been_ redeemed.

 

 

* * *

 

 

After it was over—the seal had been broken and Samhain had been sent back to Hell—he found Dean Winchester sitting in a park.  It was the same park where Castiel had found himself before with Uriel, talking strategy and contemplating God while they waited for revelation.  This park reminded Castiel a little of his favorite Heaven.  He could find respite here in the sunshine, marveling at all of his Father’s creations.  Fall leaves littered the ground, and the air echoed with the sounds of children playing.

Dean always seemed to know when he was there, even before he announced himself.  Dean greeted him warily, and Castiel felt something inside of him sour at the loss of trust.  _Why_ did he care so much what the Righteous Man thought of him?  No, not the Righteous Man.  Dean Winchester.  Why did he care what _Dean_ thought of him?  Castiel was as old as the Earth itself.  Dean was a blink in his existence, inconsequential in the grand scheme of things.  He didn’t owe the man an explanation.  Castiel was beyond that.  And yet, he found himself opening his mouth and trying to explain, regardless.  “Our orders were not to stop the summoning of Samhain.  They were to do whatever you told us to do.”

Dean was shocked and confused by the power that Heaven had put in his hands.  Commanding angels?  Averting the apocalypse?  His soul was heavy with that burden, and with the guilt that he bore.  “But you know what?  If you were to wave that time-traveling-wand of yours and I had to do it all over again, I’d make the same call.”  He gritted his teeth and waved at the playground.  “What I do know is that this, here…all of it is still here because of my brother and me.”

And Castiel kept his peace because it was true.  He took a deep breath of air using his borrowed lungs and found his thoughts taking a strange turn.  “Can I tell you something if you promise not to tell another soul?”  _Why_ did he trust Dean so easily?

“Alright.”  Dean didn’t even sound wary.

“I’m not a…hammer, as you say.  I have questions.”  _No, stop._ “I have doubts.”  _Be quiet._ “I don’t know what is right and what is wrong anymore.  Whether you passed or failed here.”  _Silence yourself._ “But in the coming months, you will have more decisions to make.  I don’t envy the weight that is on your shoulders, Dean.”  Every single word of that was true.  “I truly don’t.” 

_That was blasphemy._


	9. Wishful Thinking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be prepared, folks. Cas is gonna practically HAUNT DEAN for the next 7 seasons in my version. Say it with me, everyone: FUCK CANON.

 

 

 

Dean dropped Sam off in front of the Chinese restaurant, the growl of the Impala soothing his nerves as he pulled away to conduct his own research.  His brother had been bugging him all week, more so than usual, about sharing and caring, and frankly, Dean had had enough of it.  Dean was just rounding the corner onto a side street near the motel when he felt the air inside the car change subtly and a deep, gravelly voice said from the passenger seat “You should tell your brother.  About Hell.”

It was a testament to how strange Dean’s life was that he barely even flinched at the impromptu appearance of the angel in the close confines of his moving vehicle.  The air was different with him around though, closer, with the almost-hum of low level static.  The kind that often permeated the air before a storm.  Cas sat stiffly in the passenger seat, but he was still close enough that Dean could feel the heat of his body.

Dean turned away from the road just long enough to glare at the intruder, before he jerked his gaze back.  “What for?!”  He growled.  The last thing he needed was a nosy ass Angel of the Lord also bugging him to share intimate details of Hell that he’d rather forget, or at least pretend to forget.

Castiel’s voice was monotonous, and showed no reaction to Dean’s vitriol.  “He may be able to offer new perspective.”

“No.”  Dean snarled.  “Absolutely not.”  He turned his head to argue further, but the angel was already gone.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Dean crouched alone in the motel bathroom, knees pressed into the hard floor, face sweaty from the treacherous foot-long with jalapenos that he’d wished for.  It had been a long time since something so simple had brought Dean to his knees and forced him to puke his guts up.  In between bouts of sickness, he found himself mumbling incoherently—praying. 

It wasn’t _real._ He didn’t _mean_ it.  But still, he laid his sweaty forehead against the toilet seat and moaned out an “Oh God, please make it _stop_.  _Ugh_ …I have nothing left to _give._ ”  And then he heard what he now realized was the tell-tale flutter of wings, and then suddenly Cas was sitting there next to him, perched on the side of the chipped motel bathtub.

“I can help.”  The angel was silent for a moment, as Dean glared up at him.  He cocked his head to the side.  “I can take this pain away.”

“ _No._ ” Dean gritted, fighting to keep the next wave of sickness down.  “I don’t want your help.  I don’t _need_ it.”  The sickness overwhelmed him, then, and he spent the next couple minutes heaving with his head hanging over the toilet.  When he was finally finished and he slumped back again, Cas was gone.  Dean began to wonder if the angel had ever even actually been there.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Dean dreamed of Hell again.  _Blood.  So much of it.  All over his hands and face.  Leaking through the slices in his skin.  Oozing out of his mouth.  Now he was drinking it in.  Bathing in it.  Screams.  So many screams.  His, and others.  Pain.  Sick, hot pleasure.  Cold satisfaction.  And then WINGS.  Huge, towering, overwhelming wings.  And light.  God, the light was so bright Dean thought it would burn him out.  Wings.  Light.  Cas._

Dean surged up in bed, his pulse pounding, sweat beading his forehead.  His fingers trembled as he reached for the bottle on the bedside table.  Jesus, there wasn’t enough booze _in the world_ to deal with this shit.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

After their case was finished and Sam Winchester was revived, Castiel watched, unseen, when Dean told Sam the truth about Hell.  Or at least about remembering it. 

Each word, dragged up his throat and through his teeth, hurt Dean.  Castiel could feel the man’s pain slice through his own borrowed body, and ache deep within his Grace.  He gasped and held his hand to his side, almost like he could soothe the pain away, or hold it in.  He realized that Dean must feel the same way, and he took one step toward the man, to ease his pain, before he thought better of it.  This pain was hard, and terrible to endure, but it was a good thing, too.  It meant that Dean was beginning to heal.

If Castiel had been a man, he might have smiled.


	10. I Know What You Did Last Summer

 

 

Dean dreams of Cas, sometimes.  It’s a little thing, really.  Unimportant.  Sometimes they talk.  About inconsequential things.  Dean talks and Cas listens.  Sometimes Cas tells Dean things that he doesn’t really understand.  Sometimes Cas never says anything at all.  He’s just there.  With Dean.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The girl, Anna, stood there in the shadows of the church, backlit by the glowing stained glass window and pronounced “First words I heard, clear as a bell: ‘Dean Winchester is saved.’”

The girl was beautiful, Dean could appreciate that, but with her words, Dean’s mind veered off on another track.  _Dean Winchester is saved._ Who had said it?  Dean couldn’t really imagine Castiel shouting those words, triumphantly risen from the flames of the Pit.  But maybe he had?  Who else would have?

Sometimes Dean wished he could just erase the angel from his thoughts.

 

 

* * *

 

 

When Castiel blew the door to the cabin open and walked in like the wrath of Heaven, Dean honestly didn’t know whether he was doomed or saved.


	11. Heaven and Hell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's always been a headcanon of mine that the handprint scar serves as the physical manifestation of a real connection between Dean and Cas. So when Anna tried to call dibs, well.... 
> 
> To be honest, I'm probably having WAY too much fun with this :)

 

 

When Dean first saw him stride in, the wind howling outside, hair disheveled, he thought that they were saved.  They could stop running.  Heaven was stepping in.  But Cas and Uriel weren’t there to help them, weren’t there to save Anna.  They were there to kill her. 

It felt like betrayal, and it filled Dean’s heart with a desperate rage.  “You’re some heartless sons of bitches, you know that?”  The words were spit in Cas’s face, evidence of Dean’s disappointment.

“As a matter of fact, we are.  And?”  Cas’s eyes were burning blue embers, his voice was an unaffected monotone.  And still, somehow, the words felt like a lie.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Dean never imagined in a million years that he would someday find himself battling the forces of Heaven, and yet here he stood, smack in the middle of a showdown, because he refused to allow some angels to kill a seemingly innocent girl.  He clenched his fists and set his jaw.  If this was the end, he was damn sure gonna go down swinging.

But it felt _wrong._ So, so wrong.  Dean didn’t want to fight Cas.  Dean couldn’t imagine himself striking out at the angel with the intent to hurt, and perhaps foolishly, he couldn’t imagine Castiel doing the same to him either.  So Dean sidestepped _that_ particular can of worms by going after Uriel instead.  When the fight actually broke out, it was pure chaos.  What could they even do, really, against angels?  Dean saw out of the corner of his eye—Cas stalking slowly toward Sam.  Dean’s heart leapt.  Oh, God!  Had he misjudged?  Was Cas gonna hurt Sammy?  Dean would never forgive him.  Would never forgive himself. 

Before any real damage was done, a bright light erupted in the room, and the angels froze.  Dean’s eyes darted to Cas and caught a glimpse of him—eyes rounded, face contorted in pain—before the light obliterated him. 

Dean’s heart stopped, and his whole body went cold.  A jagged knife of fear and rage slashed through him.  His mind was a mess: _Cas was gone.  Anna had killed him._

 

* * *

 

 

 

Later, after the sun had gone down, he leaned against the Impala next to Anna and asked “Why do they want me?”  He asked Anna because he couldn’t ask Cas, because he was afraid to.  Anna stared back at him with eyes full of sorrow.  Dean swallowed thickly, and closed his eyes.  He imagined a flash of light, a hand searing into him, wings and righteous fury.  Maybe he didn’t want to know the answer.

 

* * *

 

 

 

“You guys are powerful, perfect.”  Dean told Anna, still confused about why she didn’t want to reclaim her Grace and become an angel again. 

He meant what he said.  They radiated power so thick that it felt like the crackling of a thunderstorm on the horizon.  They smelled like ozone, electricity.  Their eyes burned with Heavenly fire, shining bright enough to burn you out if you looked too closely.  They were strong, and sure, and didn’t doubt.  They were pure, righteous, perfect.  Everything Dean was not. 

Anna said something in response, and Dean brought his attention back. 

Until now, he’d only had two angels for reference, and to be honest, he sort of hated that dick Uriel.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

They sat in a circle in the abandoned barn as Dean told them about Uriel’s ultimatum—Give them Anna, or Dean gets hurled back to Damnation. 

It was the determination, and rage on his baby brother’s face that hit closest to home.  Sam glanced over his shoulder and asked if Anna knew of a weapon that could kill angels. 

In that moment, Dean tried to picture it—would angels bleed, or glow, or just vanish?  But he couldn’t picture a dying angel without giving it Cas’s face.  And… yeah, no.  He wasn’t ready to do that.  He wasn’t ready to kill an angel—any angel.  He wasn’t ready to think about becoming Castiel’s enemy.  He wasn’t ready to hurt him.

“No,” Dean said, voice gruff, to get Sam’s attention.  “We need to think of something else.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Castiel stood in a shadowed grove of trees, somewhere on the other side of the world, while he waited for orders.  Uriel was in Heaven, seeking Revelation.  All Castiel could do now was wait.  He should have been calm, collected, unburdened by thoughts of doubt, or grief, and yet that was not true. 

He frowned at himself, and began the arduous process of sorting through his tumultuous thoughts, when he was seemingly hit out of nowhere, bowled over by a swirling tempest of emotion and sensation, and suddenly Castiel did not know where he was or what he was doing, or even _who_ he was.

His ears were filled with moans, and sharp, gasping breaths, and sighs.  The slap and slick slide of skin, the creak of leather.  He could feel the warmth, and the softness, and the pressure, and an ecstatic joy that trembled just beneath his own skin.  The air was hot and heavy, and thick with the musk of sweat and sex, and….   Oh, God…..  It was too much at once, overwhelming, destructive, creative, EVERYTHING ALL AT ONCE AND HE’D NEVER FELT SO ALIVE IN ALL OF HIS EXISTENCE.

A moment later, the sensations released Castiel and he fell to his vessel’s knees, his Grace burning.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Even though Dean knew it was a dream, it felt wrong for Uriel to be standing before him, instead of Cas.  He couldn’t help but wonder where Cas was, and he asked as much.  Uriel smiled nastily at the question, like he knew something Dean didn’t, like Dean was a fool.  Uriel’s smile was made of knives when he said “He has this weakness.  He likes you.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

The Winchesters and Anna stood there, defiant still even though this was the end.  The fight was over, there were no more moves to make.  Dean had done the righteous thing and divulged their location, just as Castiel had hoped he would.  Still, he seemed to look almost… regretful about it. Why should he be?  There was no reason to regret service to Heaven.  And yet, Castiel knew already that Dean Winchester was not so simple.

Dean met his eyes from across the expanse, and they seemed to communicate for a moment, though Castiel could not say what their eyes had said to each other.

A moment later, Anna kissed Dean and told him she forgave him.  A surge of… _something_ burned through Cas, and he had to avert his eyes. 

Castiel didn’t understand the feeling, doubted it, but _knew,_ against all odds, despite what Anna said of him, that he felt _something._

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Cas glowered at Alastair, eyes flashing, and all of the air seemed to leave the room.  “Turn around and walk away, now.  You know who we are and what we will do.  I won’t say it again.”  Castiel squared his shoulders.  “Leave now or we lay you to waste.” 

A shiver went up Dean’s spine, followed by a confusing thought.  That was hot as fuck.  Terrifying, but hot.

A moment later, Cas strode forward, going toe to toe with Alastair, and Dean wasn’t ashamed to say that he was scared as Hell.  Alastair was the evilest, darkest, most ruthless bastard that Dean had ever met, and he was a powerful demon on top of all that.  And yet Cas didn’t even flinch when he went after him, the rage of Holy fire burning behind his eyes.

Dean was sure there was probably some poetry to what was happening, some bigger picture that he could only partly see.  But what he knew was that the demon who had painstakingly taken him apart, piece by piece, year after year, was now fighting the angel who had saved him and put him back together.  And only one of them could win.

Dean’s heart stopped when Alastair got Cas down on the ground and climbed on top of him, his hands wrapped around Cas’s throat, squeezing, choking.  Dean remembered those hands.  He remembered the feel of his life slipping away, over and over again.  Dark Latin words slipped out of Alastair’s mouth, and in the back of Dean’s mind, he understood that Alastair was trying to exorcize Castiel.

Dean didn’t care that they’d been fighting the angels too, didn’t care that he was mad.  A fire rose up in him, and he ran forward.  There was no way in Hell he was gonna stand back and watch Alastair hurt Cas.  That wasn’t even an option.

Smacking the bastard in the head with a crowbar also felt damn good.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The room filled with beautiful light, a swirl of Heavenly Grace, and Castiel’s vessel’s eyes refused to close, and so he took it all in.  The force of the union obliterated Anna’s body, but it still felt like a moment of confused triumph.  He knew that he would see her again. 

When he managed to push himself to his vessel’s feet, and take stock of the situation, he realized that they’d all made it through the fight in one piece.   He knew that might not have been true.  He’d almost been ripped from this body, crippled, and sent back to Heaven.  Dean had helped him.

Uriel stood next to him, the fury within him vibrating, howling to be let loose on the mortals before them.  “This isn’t over!”  He snarled.  He took a step toward Dean, but Castiel held up a hand to stop him. 

He met Dean’s eyes again, for just a moment, and though no words passed between them, they understood one another.

Castiel pumped his wings, and took Uriel out of there.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

Sam could feel the pain and grief, and utter hopelessness like it was his own.  Each of Dean’s words was like a new knife in his heart, and he was bleeding to death.  Forty years.  Forty years Dean was in Hell.  Tortured, in pain, ripped apart over and over again.  All of it, for Sam.

The guilt weighed on him, crushed him. 

Then it was worse.  The demon Alastair destroyed Dean in other ways, deeper, more insidious ways.  Ways that tore him apart still.  Dean had begun the torturing in his stead.  Dean’s voice wavered, full of tears when he confessed “I lost count of how many souls.”  Dean’s body was healed, but he bore other kinds of scars.

It was worse than Sam’s darkest imaginings, and it was too much, too much.  Sam felt himself edging close to madness, unable to cope with the torments that Dean had suffered in Hell.

But then Sam remembered.

Dean had been saved.  Pulled out by an Angel of the Lord who had fought his way through Hell.

Sam was suddenly filled with a pure, uncomplicated gratitude for Castiel, despite everything else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On a more serious note, it always seemed very poetic to me that Dean's destroyer and Dean's savior went head to head in this episode, but more importantly that DEAN HAD A CHOICE. He could let Alastair win again, or he could do something. And he saved Cas, even though he was mad at him. Dean chose a side, he just might not have understood exactly what that meant yet.


	12. Family Remains

 

 

 

 

Sam never shut up about it.  Dean never should have told Sam about Hell.

Most of the time, Sam tried to convince him to talk about it, to share his feelings.  Sam was there for support, he said.  He just wanted Dean to be okay again.  Well, that wasn’t gonna fucking happen.  Hell wasn’t just something you could cure, or wipe away.  It was there now, forever, leached into Dean’s soul, snug underneath his ribcage, wound tight into his brain.  Hell was a part of him now, and he didn’t feel like talking about it.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Dean fought against sleep, keeping himself busy with cases instead.  When he felt exhaustion coming on, he battled it, or drowned it in alcohol so that he passed out, dreamless, for a few hours before he jerked awake again.  He didn’t like to sleep anymore, because when he slept, he dreamt of Hell.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Dean promised he’d never tell, but then, he’d broken a lot of promises lately, and he just couldn’t seem to keep the words back anymore.  Sam wanted to know.  He _needed_ to know.  Still, it felt like knives were carving him up, when Dean finally confessed.  His voice wobbled with tears when he said “I did it for the sheer pleasure.  I enjoyed it, Sam.  They took me off the rack and I tortured souls, and I liked it.”  He paused for a moment, just to breathe, just to remind himself that he was no longer there.  “I didn’t care who they put in front of me.”  He felt his heart beat in his chest, felt the dirt and gravel under his boots, and the wind blowing against his face.  He was alive.  He didn’t deserve to be.  “No matter how many people I save, I can’t change that.  I can’t fill this hole.  Not ever.”  And he really believed that.

 

* * *

 

 

 

That night, Dean pushed sleep away, fought it tooth and nail, even as he beckoned it forward with each pull he took of the bottle of whisky.  He was so tired that his body shook, and his eyes had gone bleary.  He needed to sleep, but he was afraid to. 

Eventually, though, exhaustion and alcohol won out, and he finally slipped into the dream world.  Immediately he was surrounded by flames and the stench of blood, and the echoing screams of the souls he tormented.  He couldn’t get out.  This was Hell.  He was back again.

Suddenly, though, it all disappeared, and instead Dean found himself sitting at the end of a dock, fishing in a quiet, peaceful lake.  He held the rod in one hand, and a beer in the other, and he felt at peace, for the first time he could remember.  He took a deep breath, and the air was clean, pure, smelling of trees and plants and water. 

Suddenly, Dean detected movement to his right, but he wasn’t startled by it.  Instead, he slowly turned his head and smiled.  It was Cas, standing there beside him, face stoic as ever as he glanced down at Dean.  Dean found himself calmed even further.  “Hey Cas… what are you doing here?”  He asked.

Cas’s voice was inflectionless as he said “I’m the one who brought you here.”

Dean’s brows furrowed.  “Am I dreaming?  Is this a dream?”

“Yes.”

Dean’s heart suddenly leapt in his chest, the prelude to panic.  “I was in Hell.  I always dream about Hell, Cas.  I don’t want to go back.”

Cas shifted minutely on his feet, a warrior settling himself.  “There will be no more Hell tonight, Dean.  I promise.”


	13. Criss Angel is a Douchebag

 

 

_Go to 426 Bleeker.  Ask for Chief._

 

Dean never thought, walking down into that dark, seedy basement, that he was going to be confronted with a big beefy dom wearing leather.  He wasn’t interested. He wasn’t.  Though he had to admit, he’d had thoughts about it before, a long time ago. 

He’d pushed those thoughts down though, buried them under a mountain of denial and booze and women and words that sounded a lot like John Winchester.  _Dean, what are you looking at?!  Focus, son!_ Dean, wandering back from a trip to the bar, smelling like cigarettes and alcohol, and cheap perfume and cologne.  _Hitting it off with the ladies again, huh son?  That’s my boy._ And those times when John was drunk, or didn’t realize Dean was listening.  Talking to some of his old hunting buddies, bitching about _the fairies_ and _the gays_ messing things up, like hunting monsters wasn’t bad enough.  Teenage Dean flinched at the words, and buried his thoughts away.  Dad was right, after all, he was always right.  Dean wanted to make his dad proud, show him how capable and strong he was.  There was no room for… fantasies, or diversions.  It just wasn’t right.

Dean had been able to convince himself that he wasn’t interested in guys like that.  Any thoughts he’d had were teenage confusion, straightened out over the years by time and a lot of chicks.  But recently… well, recently, he’d begun to wonder again.  In an abstract way, of course.

There was just something so damn attractive about a person who could hold their own against Dean.  A person who Dean didn’t have to be careful with, a person who wasn’t delicate, wasn’t so breakable.   A person who was even stronger than him, maybe, dangerous. 

Dean allowed himself to imagine what a person like that might be like.  Strong jaw.  Fiery eyes.  Determined set to their shoulders and feet, unmovable, solid.   It’s not like Dean was really interested, not like he was ever gonna do a damn thing about these thoughts.  But he finally allowed himself to think them.  To wonder.  To imagine what it might be like to be with someone who wasn’t… who wasn’t….

He kept these thoughts close, and never let them show.  Hell, he didn’t even dare to dwell on them for too long, because who knew who might overhear them and catch on?  But it was funny, because he’d spent his whole life trying to fit into a specific mold, trying to convince himself that he only had eyes for the ladies—he was Dean Winchester, after all, ladies’ man.  But now that didn’t seem to matter anymore.  That wasn’t even the worst of it.  If only his dad could see him now.  As if men weren’t bad enough, now Dean found himself just beginning to wonder, just a little bit, about a person who wasn’t even human.

 


	14. After School Special

 

 

 

Sometimes, when Castiel could spare a moment or two from his duties and Heaven, he found himself observing Dean Winchester.  Sometimes, it was simply because he was curious, or because he wanted to offer a word of caution.  But those times were rare; Dean still didn’t trust him, and he often reacted badly when Castiel appeared unannounced.

But things were different when Dean was dreaming.  Castiel often found himself walking through Dean’s dreams with him, or standing guard at the edge of his consciousness so that the hunter could find a few hours of much needed rest.  Dean was much more tolerant in sleep.  He was always aware of Castiel’s presence, but he never tried to send him away.  In fact, more often than not, Castiel would be welcomed into the hunter’s dreams with waves of appreciation and acknowledgment. 

This time, though, Castiel found himself hanging at the outskirts of Dean’s unconscious mind, watching memories replay themselves for the hunter. 

Dean was a boy again, a teenager.  He stood in a crowded hallway, with people he didn’t know milling around him while he argued with a young blond woman, a girl who looked to be about Dean’s own age here.  The girl was saying something, but Castiel couldn’t hear it.  It was all white noise for a moment, and then “You spend so much time trying to convince people that you’re cool, but it’s all an act.  We both know that you’re just a sad, lonely little kid.  And I feel sorry for you, Dean.” 

Castiel watched as Dean’s face crumpled in devastation, just for a moment, before he hid the hurt, and fired back “You feel sorry for me, huh?  Don’t feel sorry for me!  You don’t know anything about me!  I save lives, I’m a hero!  A hero!”

The kids around Dean snickered and rolled their eyes, and Castiel could feel the waves of embarrassment and anxiety roll off of Dean, before the dream faded at the edges and morphed into something else.

Castiel couldn’t pinpoint that moment in time—he hadn’t known Dean back then.  But he wondered if that’s what had really happened to him, or if it was more a fabrication of Dean’s own mind.  Either way, it was interesting, enlightening.  Had people really treated Dean that way?  Even now, Dean refused to admit his own insecurities, refused to allow people to see past the front that he put up against them in order to protect himself. 

Had Dean doubted himself, then?  Did he still?  It was strange for Castiel to think that the Righteous Man who he’d been sent to Hell to retrieve had been this teenager once—unsure of himself, unaware of his destiny. 

Even after the dream had faded, Dean’s words continued to echo in Castiel’s mind: _I’m a hero!_ Castiel thought back to the rise of Samhain, and how Dean had refused to abandon the town, and he thought that maybe he understood, just a little bit more, now. 


	15. Sex and Violence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Specific warning for internalized homophobia & homophobic language/slurs.

 

 

 

This dream was not like the others. 

Dean stood in the center of a room, bound on all sides by mirrors that alternately reflected him, then darkness, then others—people he knew and loved.  In front of him, the mirror that reflected his own image sneered and asked “What the hell is wrong with you, man?  What are you?  Some kind of….”

The mirror flashed to John Winchester, who, with lip curled, hissed: “faggot?  Is that what you are now, Dean?”

“No!”  Dean protested, only to be confronted by the image of Bobby Singer raising his head.

“Don’t lie, boy.  It doesn’t suit ya.”

Sam’s face swam up out of the depths of one of the mirrors, his features contorted with confusion.  “It is true, Dean?  Do you like… guys?”

“No!”  Dean shouted again.  “It didn’t mean anything!”

The mirror to Dean’s side morphed into the siren, the tall man who called himself Nick.  He smiled seductively and repeated the words he’d spoken in life: “Dean’s all mine.  I gave him exactly what he wanted.”  Then he chuckled and faded away.

Dean’s hands shook with panic, another denial working its way up his throat. 

Bobby shook his head and scoffed before he disappeared from the mirror.  Sam gave Dean a solemn look before he too, took his leave.  John stared at Dean for a long moment before he said “I always knew there was something wrong with you.”  When he finally melted away, Dean was left facing himself. 

The mirror-Dean scowled, and said “What do you have to say for yourself now, huh?  They all know.  You can’t lie anymore, Dean.”

Dean started to shake again, and his heart pounded in his chest.  It was almost as bad as his dreams of Hell, so Castiel decided to step in.  With a soft touch, he raised Dean to consciousness.

 

* * *

 

 

 

Dean blinked his eyes open and was immediately aware of two things: the first was that Sam was no longer in the motel room with him—his bed was empty.  The second was that Castiel sat at the end of Dean’s bed, a slight frown curving his mouth. 

Dean jerked up to a sitting position and pulled his legs toward himself, away from Cas.  “What are you doing here?”  He demanded.

Cas tilted his head minutely.  “You were having a nightmare.”

“Yeah, so?”  Dean growled.  His heart was hammering a mile a minute.  “Answer the question.”

“You were upset, so I woke you.”

Dean’s breath froze in his lungs and he narrowed his eyes at the angel through the darkness of the motel room.  “Did you… did you see?”

“Yes,” Castiel said, reaching out for Dean.  “I don’t understand why it upset you.”  He laid his hand warmly, firmly on Dean’s shoulder, and a pleasant, tingly buzz saturated Dean’s body, just for a moment, before he jerked his arm back.

“Don’t touch me!”  He growled.  “And stay out of my head!”

“Dean….”  Cas began, only to have Dean snarl at him once more.

“I don’t wanna talk about it, Cas!  Forget whatever it is you think you saw.”

The angel’s features went smooth again in the instant before he disappeared with the soft flutter of wings.  Only after he was gone did Dean allow himself to slump back on the bed.  His heart continued to pound in his chest.  How much had Castiel seen?  Did he… did he know?  Dean’s hands shook as he pushed the blankets away and crawled out of bed, searching for the bottle of Jack he’d abandoned the night before.  “Doesn’t matter.”  Dean mumbled to himself after he tipped back a gulp of the burning liquid.  “Just gonna forget this ever happened.”  He chuckled darkly and took another drink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think that it's events like this that took place in canon (the male siren, witnessed by Bobby & Sam) that prompt Dean to try to reassert his macho-hetero persona, while also denying that the event had any meaning whatsoever. Now think about it-- what if Cas had witnessed it too? Not just an Angel of the Lord, but Cas, specifically, who Dean finds himself trusting for some strange reason? Serious denial.


	16. Death Takes a Holiday

 

 

Castiel watched, unseen, as Dean and Sam Winchester walked into the angel-warded funeral home.  He held his weapon ready at his side, but knew that right now, it would be of no use.  Once the brothers crossed the threshold, Castiel could no longer sense them.  He clenched his jaw and stationed himself across the street to wait.  It was all he could do now.

 

 

* * *

 

 

If Dean had had a heart in the spirit realm, it would have been racing.  As it was, his astral self was still gripped with terror when Alastair followed him out of the building, his sibilant voice declaring “You can’t run, Dean.  Not from me.  I’m inside that angsty little noggin of yours.”  And the worst part was that he was right.  Dean couldn’t get rid of him.  Not after all this time.  Not after forty years, spent day after day with the demon.  Dean had spent more time with Alastair than any other being in creation. 

But then suddenly, Alastair froze, enveloped in jagged ropes of blue lightning that wrapped around him and bound him, and suddenly the demon was gone.  Dean stopped, panting, and gasped “What the hell?”

Behind him, a familiar voice rumbled “Guess again.” 

Cas.  It was Cas.  And not sit-at-your-bedside and haunt-your-dreams Cas, but furious Angel of the Lord, smiting-power-of-Heaven Cas.  Somehow, he was here, and he’d seized Alastair, and saved Dean.  And Dean didn’t know what to say.  Things were still awkward between he and the angel, and Castiel didn’t make it any easier when he did things like this. 

Dean listened, slack-jawed, as Cas explained his involvement in the case.  As he confessed that he was the one who had orchestrated the Winchesters’ involvement in the first place.  Dean honestly didn’t know what to say, except “Why didn’t you just ask?”  Why did Heaven, and Cas specifically, seem to make things so much more difficult than they had to be.  Why did they always seem to be manipulating him and his brother?

Cas huffed out a frustrated breath—something uncommon for the angel—and said “Because whatever I ask, you seem to do the exact opposite.”  And Dean couldn’t really argue with that, because it was true.  That was his nature—contrary and defiant.  And it wasn’t anything personal, with regards to Cas—at least, Dean didn’t think it was. 

Dean found himself appealing to Cas again, to a nature he wasn’t even sure the angel had, asking for mercy, asking the angel to spare the lives of the people who lived in the town.  Castiel, of course, refused, quoting some Bible verse about everything having a season.  And Dean was tired of it and frustrated.  Why the Hell did he keep talking to the angel?  Why did he always seem to think that Cas might listen, that he might be swayed by Dean?  He was a dick angel, just like the others, but still, Dean couldn’t seem to make himself stop trying.  Pleadingly, he reminded the angel “You made an exception for me.”

Castiel looked back at him, and Dean thought once more that the angel’s eyes were unfathomable.  What did Dean know about Heaven and angels?  What did he know about this ageless being who had pulled him from the Pit and somehow left an imprint on his being?  Dean was surely nothing, in his eyes.  A brief moment in eternity.  A single grain of sand.  A nuisance.  He was ready for the denial, braced for Castiel’s cruel or dismissive words, the words that would prove that Dean was just another man, just like all the others.  And so he didn’t know what to say, when Cas finally murmured “You’re different.”  Then the angel was gone again, with his tell-tale flutter of wings.

And Dean didn’t know how to handle that, didn’t know how to even process the words.  How was Dean different?  How was he an exception?  How could he mean anything at all to Cas, and to Heaven?  Dean was just a man, just another hunter, just a fuck-up who’d probably die again before the year was up.  He refused to let himself believe that he was special.  He wasn’t.  He was just a soldier.  A good little soldier.  And Cas didn’t care about him. 

_You’re different._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dean spent 40 long years in Alastair's company in Hell, longer than he's spent with any other being. That's a hard pill to swallow.


	17. On The Head Of A Pin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dean becomes something else in this episode, and so does Castiel.

 

 

 

A chill wind whipped around him, but he was unaffected as he strode through the tangle of metal and broken glass.  Car horns continued to beep, wailing out a warning for the destruction he would find.  Amidst the chaos, the vessel of his fallen sister lay, pale and empty, with her wings nothing more than ashes now on the pavement.  Castiel ceased the noise and crouched next to the empty vessel.

She was the seventh angel slain, thus far, members of Castiel’s own garrison.  These were the siblings that he’d been stationed on earth with for millennia, the brethren that he knew best.  And they were still no closer to figuring out who was killing his siblings, or how, or why.

Castiel felt her loss deep within his Grace—it wasn’t so much a pain, or an ache, as it was an emptiness.  A hole that could never be filled by another, because there was no other.  Each angel, though created to serve their Father, was unique in their own right, and served an individual purpose.  The broken, empty vessel before Castiel had once contained Sofiel, who had a special love of nature and sought to instill this love into the hearts of humans.  Now she was gone forever, and her spot could never be filled.

There was little choice left.  They needed to know who was behind such murders, and there was only one creature that could give them the answers.  But for that, well… for that, he’d been told, they’d need Dean.

 

* * *

 

 

 

Castiel had protested the decision to include the hunter in their investigation, not only because Dean was busy with other missions, but because he knew what it would take from the hunter to fulfill this request.  Castiel not only protested, he submitted a formal objection to his superior, Zachariah, only to have his concerns brushed aside for the sake of brevity. 

Not only were Castiel’s strategic alternatives ignored, but he was also informed quite curtly that his reasoning had been influenced by his close contact with the Winchesters, and he was being removed from his position as Heavenly envoy to the brothers.  Instead, Uriel was being given that position, and Castiel was to report to him, and support him in all of his decisions regarding the Winchesters. 

Castiel was filled with… something, with a feeling he could not identify, when he was given the news.  But what else was there for him to do, but obey?

 

* * *

 

 

Castiel could feel Dean’s grief and anger before the Winchesters ever arrived back to their motel room.  The emotions were like a thick cord that stretched between Dean and himself.  Those feelings, and the thoughts that fueled them were…uncomfortable, in a way that Castiel was not used to. 

When the brothers finally arrived, Uriel made quick work of explaining the situation and what they required of Dean.  Dean refused, of course, and shouted abuse at he and Uriel, accusing them of being uncaring, and placing the responsibility of Pamela Barnes’ death upon them.  Castiel felt bound, gagged by his new orders.  He wanted to soothe Dean, and explain, but of course Uriel did not care, and before Castiel could say or do something he might regret, Uriel had snatched Dean and transported them all to the warehouse where the demon Alastair was being detained.

 

* * *

 

 

Dean had no idea what was up with the reassignment, but he didn’t like it, and he refused to go along with it without a peep.  He glared at Uriel—he really hated that son of a bitch—and demanded “I want to talk to Cas—alone.” 

Uriel’s alien eyes regarded Dean with…amusement?.. for a moment, before he relented and said “I think I’ll go seek revelation.  We might have some further orders.”  And even though he was leaving, Dean couldn’t help but sass him on his way out.

When Uriel had finally left them alone, Dean turned to Cas, appealing, like he so often found himself doing nowadays.  He still didn’t quite understand _why_ he believed this angel was different from the others, or why he thought that Cas would give him the truth, and be sympathetic.  It didn’t matter if he understood it, though; he felt it.  And so Dean squared his shoulders and faced the angel and demanded “What’s going on, Cas?  Since when does Uriel put a leash on you?”

“My superiors have begun to question my sympathies.  I was getting too close to the humans in my charge.  You.”  Dean felt the word slice through him, and he had to fight to hold back a shudder.  “They feel I’ve begun to express emotions, doorways to doubt.  This can impair my judgment.”  The lines sounded rehearsed, and Dean suddenly wondered if they were, if Cas was just repeating a lecture he’d received, likely more than once. 

So this… this demotion… was because of Dean.  Because for some reason, Cas was a little bit different, and he did treat Dean differently. 

Knowing this, Dean couldn’t keep his worries back anymore.  “You ask me to open that door and walk through it, you will not like what walks back out.”  He shivered again, and it terrified him.  Dean couldn’t be sure whether he felt sick at the idea of what he’d been asked to do, or if he felt anticipation at the thought of picking up a blade again. 

Castiel’s lips tightened, just for a moment, and then he seemed to deflate, and he no longer looked so angelic, so immovable, when he said : “For what it’s worth, I would give anything not to have you do this.”  And for a moment there, Dean actually almost believed him.

 

* * *

 

 

With each perfect, smooth, precise cut, Dean felt himself grow calm.  It was the best kind of therapy he’d ever had.  He could feel the taint, the corruption of Hell seeping back into his bones, into his blood, but he didn’t care.  He welcomed it at this point.  He couldn’t get enough of it.  Beyond the edge of his mind, he heard Alastair goad him on with sharp clarity, but he tuned that out as well and focused on making his art. 

God, how he’d missed being an artist.

 

* * *

 

 

Castiel could feel Dean’s torment through the steel door, through all the barriers Dean had been working so hard to build up between them.  He could _feel_ Dean’s soul turning into something else, something darker.  Castiel frowned.

 

* * *

 

 

“I carved you into a new animal, Dean.  There is no going back.”

 

* * *

 

Anna showed up at the warehouse without even a trace of trepidation.  Obviously she wasn’t afraid that Castiel would try to kill her.  He wasn’t so sure of that himself.  She looked at him and _saw_ him, and it terrified him.  Could she see all of his doubts?  Could she see that Dean was his weak spot?

“Why are you letting Dean do this?”

“He’s doing God’s work.”

 

* * *

 

Dean cut another slice along Alastair’s ribs, slowly peeled the flesh back until he could glimpse bone.  He grinned.

 

* * *

 

“Who are we to question the will of God?”

 

* * *

 

Dean licked the blood off of his fingers and stared into Alastair’s dark eyes.  He saw himself reflected back in their depths—reflected as he truly was.  The student had indeed surpassed the master, finally.

 

* * *

 

“What you’re feeling, it’s called doubt.”

 

* * *

 

Dean crushed Alastair’s windpipe with his fist, just to choke off the words, the laugh.

 

* * *

 

Castiel took a step back, shook off Anna’s touch.  “I’m nothing like you.  You fell.  Go.”

 

* * *

 

“And it is written that the first seal shall be broken when a righteous man sheds blood in Hell.  As he breaks, so shall it break.”

Dean’s world suddenly became clear again—the red of the bloodlust peeling back, to leave him shaking.  He knew it was true.  Every single word that Alastair spoke… it was true.

In his moment of realization, he turned, let his guard down.  And it was just long enough for Alastair to somehow break loose from his bonds, and rain his own revenge down upon Dean, to punish him like he deserved to be punished.

Castiel arrived too late—Alastair already held Dean in his hands, was already hurting him, trying to kill him so that his soul could be hurled back to Hell, where he’d have Dean all to himself again.  Castiel would never permit that. 

He launched himself into the fight, took all of Alastair’s wrath upon himself.  And the demon was doing his best to harm him in whatever way he could.  Castiel could feel his vessel’s bones break, its skin tear.  He vaguely even felt the metal bar shoved through his back and between his ribs.  It was enough to keep him still.

And he might have been sent back to Heaven, a failure, except that Sam Winchester arrived, and destroyed the demon Alastair completely with his own infernal powers.  Castiel knew he would have to do something about Sam Winchester very soon.

 

 

* * *

 

Dean lay still in the hospital bed.  Tubes and wires trailed from his body to machines that beeped and whirred incessantly.  Castiel knew they were necessary to keep Dean’s body alive, but already he felt a severe distaste for them. 

He flexed the fingers of his vessel’s body and shifted in the stiff, confining hospital chair.  He longed to reach out and heal Dean.  It would’ve been so simple, with little effort at all.  But he’d been ordered not to.  The voice of his superior still rang annoyingly in his mind “Don’t waste your energy on such frivolous things, Castiel.  Keep your eyes on the goal.”  Castiel clenched his jaw and left the hospital.

 

* * *

 

 

The light flickered overhead, and Anna was there.  He turned to look at her, and laid his thoughts bare.  “I’m considering disobedience.  For the first time, I feel….”  And it was too much to admit, too much to verbalize the thoughts that had been plaguing him for days.

But Anna refused to tell him what to do.

And later… later, Uriel would have killed Castiel, but Anna saved him.

He still didn’t know what to do, but he knew that he needed to be careful.  And he began to question even more of his orders.

 

* * *

 

 

“Are you alright?”  Castiel asked, once again sitting next to Dean’s hospital bed.

“No thanks to you.”  The words hurt, but they were also true.

“You need to be more careful.”  Because Castiel might not always be there to protect him.

“You need to learn to manage a damn devil’s trap.”  Dean croaked around the wires.

“That’s not what I mean.”  Castiel said, but he had a feeling that Dean actually understood better than he let on.  Regardless, Castiel told Dean of Uriel’s betrayal.  It did not feel like informing an ally.  It felt like sharing his grief with a friend.  Castiel knew the feeling was dangerous.

“Is it true?  Did I break the first seal?  Did I start all this?”  Castiel could feel Dean’s sorrow and fear through their bond.   And yet….

“Yes.”  He paused for a moment, and in that instance, he reflected on everything that had happened since they’d gotten the news.  “When we discovered Lilith’s plan for you, we laid siege to Hell and fought our way to get to you before….”   Memories of Hell flashed through Dean’s mind, and across his face, and Castiel could see them, clear as day.  “It’s not blame that falls on you, Dean.  It’s fate.”  Castiel sighed—it was a human thing, and it made him uncomfortable to think of it.  “The righteous man who begins it is the only one who can finish it.  You have to stop it.”

“Lucifer.  The Apocalypse.”  Dean’s voice shook.  “What does that mean?”

Castiel shifted, and his mask of indifference broke.  He _felt_ for this man.  Deeply.  And it troubled him.  “Dean, they don’t tell me much.”  And for the first time, he cursed that truth.  _What_ weren’t they telling him?  “I know our fate rests with you.”

Dean chuckled, but the sound was wrong, fractured.  “Then you guys are screwed.  I can’t do it, Cas.  It’s too big.  Alastair was right.  I’m not all here.  I’m not strong enough.”  And then Dean cried, and Castiel felt the tears like a blade through the center of his Grace.  The grief and hopelessness wrenched something inside of him.  “I guess I’m not the man either of our dads wanted me to be.  Find someone else.  It’s not me.”

Castiel could feel all of Dean’s pain and doubt.  It echoed his own, after all, so he decided to embrace it.  What else was he supposed to do?


	18. It's a Terrible Life

 

 

 

Castiel tapped his borrowed fingers against the shiny surface of the ultra-modern table.  Sometimes he really missed being a creature of light and celestial intent.  Bodies were cumbersome, and as he settled more fully into Jimmy Novak’s, he became aware of things like the nagging leg cramp, and the urge to shift in his seat. 

A number of his brethren ranged around him, listening intently as Zachariah gave the speech that he’d obviously been preparing for.  Castiel fought not to roll his eyes, and instead tried to pay attention.

Zachariah’s voice was a nasally drone in the glaringly white and otherwise bare meeting room.

“We need to talk about the direction we’re going with this little project of ours,” he said, to a bunch of angels who were new to the mission.  “Upper management is asking us to reassess how we are going to approach the Winchesters in the future.  Our superiors want to feel confident that we are all handling the upcoming Apocalypse with the utmost seriousness.”  Castiel could feel Zachariah’s beady-eyed stare fixed on the side of his head, but he ignored it, and pretended to be in deep contemplation.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“It’s not your problem anymore, kiddo.  I’ve taken those rascals off of your hands.”  Zachariah smiled his fake, stiff smile, and patted Castiel on the shoulder. 

“But, sir….”

“Look, Castiel… I wasn’t going to bring this up.  I really wasn’t.  But you and Uriel really fucked things up with those boys, you know?  How are we supposed to make sure that they fulfill their destinies when they’re afraid to even talk to us now?”

“Give me a chance to fix my mistakes, and I promise you won’t regret it.”

“No.  Your chance has passed, Castiel.  I’ve taken matters into my own hands.”  Zachariah looked down at the shiny watch that adorned his vessel’s wrist.  “As a matter of fact, things should be progressing nicely by now.  Should we have a look?”

Castiel twitched his vessel’s shoulders.  “What do you mean?”

 

* * *

 

 

 

One of the blank walls in the meeting room transformed to a screen, upon which images of the Winchesters appeared.  At first, Castiel thought there must be some mistake.  They were the Winchesters, but they also weren’t.  And yet, he could sense their souls, even from this distance.  It was them.  But something had happened to them. 

A moment later, Zachariah snapped his fingers, the images began to move, and Castiel learned what had happened.

Castiel tilted his head and watched in confusion as Dean Winchester dressed pristinely, and prepared a health shake for his breakfast.  He watched as Dean picked up his briefcase with reverence and carried it across town to the job of his dreams.  He watched as Dean’s fingers shook while he prepared to eat a salad for his lunch.  He watched as Dean smiled in the mirror while brushing his teeth, until he shook his head and refused to look at himself anymore.  He watched as Dean tossed and turned, and couldn’t find rest.

Castiel asked the question without meaning to.  His voice rang in the eerily quiet room.  “What did you do to them?”

Zachariah stared back at Castiel with cold, remote eyes and said “I’m teaching them a lesson, Castiel.”  Castiel opened his mouth to protest, but Zachariah simply held up a hand.  “I forbid you from interfering, Castiel.  Watch.  That is ALL I permit you to do.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

The next part was harder to watch.  Dean met Sam for the first time in the new, false world.  He flinched the moment Sam’s back was turned.  Castiel noticed he wasn’t as productive that day at work.  That night, he thrashed in his blankets and woke up in a sweat.  Castiel felt a tingling at the edge of his consciousness.

 

 

* * *

 

 

When Dean finally accepted that ghosts exist, his acceptance of other things came with it.  Monsters.  Heaven.  Hell.  Castiel knew the moment when Dean had accepted it, because Dean shivered, and whispered a prayer under his breath.  Zachariah’s screen zoomed in on Dean’s mute lips, mouthing the prayer that Castiel felt shivering through his Grace and down his vessel’s spine.  Zachariah turned and smiled, like he knew what had just happened.  “That’s the faith we’ve been looking for.”  He grinned.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Castiel shifted uneasily in his seat when Dean and the ghost battled.  He longed to fly to his charge and protect him, snap him back to his own reality, where he was prepared for this fight.  His Grace ached, and he felt Dean’s soul pull at him.  He was watching the transformation of this man into something that he already was.  It was dangerous.  Wrong.  Backwards.  The other angels sat forward in their chairs, endlessly fascinated by this development.

 

 

* * *

 

Finally, they watched as Zachariah appeared in front of Dean on the screen, and cajolingly plead his case.  He explained that Dean was meant to be a hunter, that he was destined to stop the Apocalypse, that he would most definitely fulfill his destiny.  Zachariah grinned at Dean.  “There are plenty of fates worse than yours.  So, are you with me?”

 

* * *

 

 

Castiel sat back in his seat and twisted his hands in his lap as the screen went black.  His vessel’s stomach was upset, but he couldn’t figure out why.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like this is the exact sort of D-bag thing that Zachariah would do.


	19. The Monster At the End of This Book

 

 

 

 

He didn’t go there to protect the Prophet Chuck: that was the archangel’s job.  He arrived in the disheveled house of God’s Chosen for a much simpler purpose: to help Dean Winchester. 

It was easy to tell Dean that Chuck was a prophet, and that he must not be harmed.  It was easy for him to deliver the truth that “What the prophet has written cannot be unwritten,” even when Dean narrowed his eyes and demanded “So why are you here, then, huh?”

It was much harder to gently grasp Dean’s shoulder and heal him of all the wounds incurred because of the minivan.  It was even harder still to try to warn Dean of something that Castiel himself knew could not be averted.  Harder still to convince Dean that he wanted to help, despite not being able to.  The hardest part, though, was doing all of this under Heaven’s watch without capturing Zachariah’s attention. 

The simple fact of the matter was that Castiel had been ordered to leave the Winchesters alone.  But he couldn’t do that.

 

 

 

 

Castiel had spent much of his time as a strategist for Heaven.  He was thankful for those skills now, even as he materialized in the dark outside of a dilapidated hotel room, because Dean Winchester had prayed for him.

Well, not _for him_ , exactly.  But he’d prayed for Heavenly assistance, and Castiel was more attuned to his soul than any other angel, and so of course he’d been the one to answer.  The strength of Dean’s faith still surprised him, after all the man had been through, and how often he professed to have no faith at all.  That was a lie.  Castiel could feel it.

And so when Dean Winchester asked him for help, Castiel could not deny him.  He could not stand to see the anger and disappointment in Dean’s eyes.  And so, against the wishes of Heaven, Castiel found a way to help Dean, a way to circumvent Divine Script.  He said the words and locked his eyes meaningfully with Dean’s, and he was happy when Dean sighed and said “Thanks, Cas,” when he understood.

He’d done it. 

 

 

 

In Heaven, the Archangel Michael looked down upon the scene unfolding below, and he intoned: “Zachariah… pull him back.”


	20. Jump the Shark

 

 

All of Dean’s anger and pain registered as a low level buzz under Castiel’s borrowed skin.  He longed to go to the hunter, but knew that he could not.  He _could not._ Ever since the debacle with Chuck and Lilith, Castiel had been watched.  Closely.  There was an angel following him now, in the guise of a homeless man who stood two streets to Castiel’s left.

No.  Castiel wouldn’t go to Dean, even though he knew the hunter was burdened, and in danger.  Not even when he felt Dean pray to him. 

Castiel couldn’t go to Dean.  Not yet.

Castiel shoved his vessel’s hands into his trench coat pockets and continued down the road at a leisurely pace.


	21. The Rapture

 

 

 

It was a place they’d been to many times before.

The weathered wood of the dock ended on a calm, pristine lake, somewhere that Dean had been to once when he was a child, but couldn’t quite remember anymore.

He knew Cas was there, even before he saw him, even before he spoke.  Cas was always there, when Dean had this dream.

But somehow, this time was different.

Cas’s eyes were serious, troubled, when he handed Dean the mysterious note a moment before he disappeared and Dean woke up.

 

* * *

 

 

 

The lights were too bright.  Blinding.  The walls and floor and ceiling were all pristine white.  Antiseptic.  There was no scent in Heaven.  Nothing so mundane as a breeze, or heat to make the vessel sweat.

They strapped him down, and they peeled his eyes open.  Held them there, so that they would have his _full attention_ for the lesson they were about to impart. 

Images flashed before his eyes.  Death, destruction.  The like of which the earth had not seen since Michael smote down Lucifer.  Castiel bore the images.  He’d laid waste to cities before.  He’d done worse.

The images changed to those of human faces.  Anguish.  Pain.  Love.  Hate.  Dirt.  Mud.  Over and over and over.  Dean Winchester.  Sam Winchester.  Dean.  Dean.  Dean. 

They whispered to him.  Reminded him of the mission, and the words that they’d spoken to him before the descent into Hell.  They showed him what would become of the earth if they allowed Dean to waver in his conviction.  If Castiel continued to interfere.

He fought against the images.  They tore into his vessel, over and over and over again.  But the pain didn’t even touch him.  It wasn’t even close.  Too far away, through skin and sinew and muscle.  He bore it easily.

They needed to get closer to _him._

And so they yanked him out of the vessel, and sent Jimmy Novak back to earth, with his recent memory erased. 

 

 

 

And they kept Castiel in Heaven, and they continued his education.

 

 

 

 

The sprawl of an angel’s existence is vast and unknowable by any being other than God.  They are glorious and infinite, and bright.  So bright.

They put him in a box.  They compressed him, squeezed him, bound his wings and forced him down. 

They limited the endless, like they had the right to.  They had the power. 

YOU SERVE GOD.  YOU SERVE HEAVEN.

_Cas._

YOU SERVE GOD.

_Cas, please, man.  What’s going on?  Where are you?_

His Grace reached out, but was slapped back.  **DEAN.**

YOU SERVE GOD, CASTIEL.  GOD.  NOT MAN.  NOT ANY MAN. AND CERTAINLY NOT DEAN WINCHESTER.

**DEAN.**

They surrounded him, and boxed him in further, so that he fit the shape they wanted.  It was too tight, too confining.  He could not be what he was!

YOU SERVE GOD.

They broke into the core of him.  They tinkered with his Grace.  They found a mark within him.  Burned there by the wisp of a soul that had grappled with him in Hell.  They recoiled and cursed the blasphemy.

They scrubbed at it.

They tried to erase it.

_Cas._

YOU SERVE HEAVEN.

HEAVEN.

GOD.

They cut parts of him away and discarded them.  They attempted to start over.  They threatened to unmake him.  He wouldn’t be unmade, but they got halfway there before they gave up.

He re-formed.  His Grace trembled.  If he could have screamed or wept, he would have been a shivering, teary mess. 

They tried to pry the mark away.  Cut it out.  Scrub.  Burn. 

GOD.

HEAVEN.

**DEAN.**

 

 

 

They put him in a place with no light, and no sense.  Nothing.  They put him there, and they left him there.  He was broken, and less than what he’d been.  Pieces of himself were missing.  Maimed. 

**DEAN?**

GOD.

HEAVEN.

 

 

 

 

 

They tore him down to nothing next time.  They picked him apart into each individual piece, and they laid him out for all of his brethren to see.  This was the lesson.  They broke him into molecules and waves.  They untangled them, and cleansed each part of him.  They left him in pieces for an eternity.

DEAN?  They shouted.

He quivered.  What was that sound?  That sound hurt.  It hurt so much.  No, not that sound. 

DEAN?  They shouted again.

**WHAT IS DEAN?**

 

 

 

 

They rebuilt him in their own image.  Meticulously, in a room full of light, and the murmurings of the Host.  They placed each piece so that it fit with the others in perfect harmony.  He was as he had been on the day of his Creation, when God had brought him into existence.  He was pristine.  Glorious.  Perfect.  His Grace was strong and sure, and did not quiver any more.  He longed for nothing.  He stretched his wings, and did not feel confined.

DEAN?  They asked.

**HEAVEN.** He replied.

 

 

* * *

 

 

In the aftermath of the battle, in the gloom of the warehouse, Dean reached out for the angel, and said “Cas, hold up man, what were you going to tell me?”

Castiel turned to look at him, and said “I learned my lesson while I was away, Dean.  I serve Heaven.  I don’t serve man, and I certainly don’t serve you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I imagine that this is the sort of torture that Castiel underwent during his "re-education."


	22. When the Levee Breaks

 

 

 

They both felt it.  It pulsed through the link between them, undeniable, unforgiving, savage in its nature.  Dean’s agony was a living thing, palpable, and it clenched his heart, shut him down, and grappled with Castiel in Heaven.  Behind an iron door, underneath a house in Sioux Falls, South Dakota, Sam Winchester screamed himself hoarse while he detoxed from ingesting demon blood.  But he was not the only one who felt it.

 

* * *

 

 

“Where the hell are your angel pals?”  Bobby growled, while he prowled uneasily in his home.

“You tell me,” Dean replied.  He could feel the Apocalypse breathing down his neck, it’s breath an acrid fire that he could not escape.  He’d been praying for answers, praying for help, praying for Cas, but no one seemed to be listening.  No one was answering.  They were alone in this.  Like they’d always been.

 

* * *

 

 

Each call, each prayer, was like a blow to the very core of him.  His Grace shivered each time that his Holy name was intoned, and each time that the shorter _Cas_ was whispered, even if its butchery was a blasphemy.  For an eternity, it seemed, he felt it, but he abstained from its pull.  He stood in Heaven, and looked down upon the scene.  Around him, the other angels gathered, pushing and pulling at him, restless.  They could _all_ feel something coming. 

Zachariah finally nodded and said “Go to him, Castiel.  It’s time.”

When Castiel arrived in the middle of the scrap yard, it was to find Dean, desperate and angry, shaking with nerves.  “It’s about time!  I’ve been screaming myself hoarse out here for about two hours now.”  He said.  The words were angry, but Castiel could feel the _hurt_ behind them.  It struck at him, like it was his own pain.

Dean begged him to help Sam.  Castiel hated the words even as he said them.  “Dean.  I can’t.”  _No, not can’t.  Won’t.  I won’t.  I serve Heaven.  I don’t serve you.  I won’t._

He could feel the fire of Heaven burn within him, calming and clearing, as he said “Stand up and accept your role.  You are the one who will stop it.”  They stood so close to each other, so close.  Castiel could feel the spark of his Grace answer from Dean’s soul, and the resounding answer of that very soul from within his own Grace.  It was still there.  Still there.  The entire Host of Heaven hadn’t been able to get rid of it, despite their efforts.

Dean Winchester had the ability to look at him almost like he could really _see_ him, behind the human mask.  Like there was no barrier between them.  It was freeing, and elating, and unnerving.  And Castiel could not decide whether he loved it or hated it.

“If I do this, Sammy doesn’t have to.”  Dean said the words while he looked into Castiel’s eyes, waiting to detect a lie.

“If it gives you comfort to see it that way.”  Castiel could not bring himself to lie, but the will of Heaven had to come first.

Dean scoffed.  “You’re a dick these days.”

Castiel bore the words because he knew the intricacies of Fate were beyond the both of them.

Still, when Castiel needed to, he pushed, asking “You give yourself over wholly to the service of God and his angels?”

“Yeah, okay.”  Dean muttered grudgingly.

“Say it.”

“I give myself over wholly to serve God and you guys.”

And that was enough.  Far away, on a different wavelength, Zachariah smiled and said “ _You did well, Castiel.  That is enough.”_

 

 

* * *

 

 

When the deal was later revealed, Bobby snarled and demanded “Correct me if I’m wrong, but you willingly signed up to be the angels’ bitch?”  And Dean balked at the word, hated the implications, but he could not deny that it was real.  Yes, he’d sold himself.  Again.  But really, what wouldn’t he do for Sammy?

 

 

* * *

 

 

In the dark of night, moving among the shadows like a ghost, or a lesser being, Castiel followed the orders of Heaven and released Sam Winchester from his cell.  But even as his Grace stretched out and unbolted the door, swung it open, and broke through the wards, he felt… strange, doing so.  Like maybe it wasn’t… right.  Like maybe it wasn’t Heaven he should have been listening to, that he should have owed his loyalty to. 

The thoughts swamped him, and he pushed them away.

It was this internal strife that drew Anna to him, under the lights in the park.  It was where she found him, and berated him for following his orders, for letting Sam out.  But she was wrong.  She was a traitor, a blasphemy.  He was a good soldier.  A good son.  He served Heaven and nothing else.  And so he stood by when the other angels came down and captured Anna.  He _knew_ that it was just.  And yet… he couldn’t help but wonder what he’d done.  And so in the dark, he appealed, once again, to a God that never answers him.

 

* * *

 

 

 

 Through the dark, early hours of morning, Dean drove, angry and desperate, praying for a lead, promising himself, and God, and Heaven, that he was going to kill that bitch Ruby and save his brother, whether he wanted to be saved or not.

But then it happened.

They fought in the hotel room.  It was violent and brutal.  They fought each other, and they broke.  They broke their bodies and their hearts and their souls.  They broke themselves and each other and the bond that held them together. 

And it was the most painful moment of Dean’s life. 

It hurt worse than his mother’s death.  Worse than when Sammy walked out the door at age 18, worse than their father’s death, or Sammy’s death.  It hurt worse than dying.  It hurt worse than Hell.  It hurt worse than anything else, because Dean knew that it was their own doing.  They’d destroyed _themselves_ this time.  And as he lay bleeding on the hotel room floor, he couldn’t imagine how they could ever be fixed.

Castiel stood there and watched them shatter.  And he… he _felt._


	23. Lucifer Rising

 

 

 

The Host of Heaven stood gathered and ready, observing the scene as it played out below on the mortal plane.  Dean and Sam Winchester fought wildly with each other in an otherwise empty hotel room.  And then Sam Winchester, victorious, left with the demon Ruby at his heels.  And Dean Winchester was left lying bloody on the floor all by himself, though not for long.  Bobby Singer was on his way to help Dean, to talk some sense into him. 

Far above, Zachariah smiled and clapped his hands.  “Well, everything is happening just as it should.  Are we all ready for what we must do?”

The angels chorused their assent.

Below, Dean Winchester was metaphorically licking his wounds, feeling sorry for himself.  He felt betrayed and abandoned.  Sam had chosen a demon over his own brother, and that wasn’t the sort of thing that could ever be forgiven.  Bobby Singer, though, would not allow him to dwell on such things.  He cursed, and demanded that Dean pull himself together.  He told Dean that he was a better man than his father, that he could rise above such things and forgive his brother and help him anyway.  And Dean was beginning to believe him.

Above, Zachariah said “And that’s quite enough of that.  Come, Castiel, you and I still have work to do.”

And with a snap of his vessel’s fingers, Zachariah transported Dean Winchester into the Celestial Green Room where he would be safe and contained until the time when they would need him.

 

* * *

 

 

 

So much happened that could not be seen or felt by any being who was not either Dean Winchester or Castiel.

 

* * *

 

 

The truth was revealed to Dean Winchester in stages.  First, he became aware that Zachariah and Castiel, and likely all the other angels had collaborated in order to remove him from his brother and bring him here to wait.  Wait for… the Apocalypse, he learned.  The Apocalypse that the angels had never been trying to stop, but instead were trying to start.  The Apocalypse that Dean himself had been instrumental in starting and bringing forth.  The Apocalypse that Sam was going to carry out.  The Apocalypse that was going to end the world and everything in it that the Winchesters had ever loved.  There were no words for how Dean felt.  It was too much.

 

 

 

He felt lost and hopeless and desperate and angry and _he felt… something… what was it?  What was it?_ He felt rage and he wanted to wrap his hands around Zachariah’s neck and…. _Was it… guilt?  Why should he feel guilt for following his orders?_ He needed to get out, to move, to try to fix this, to find Sam and apologize and _he needed to control himself.  He’d been down this road before.  It led to disobedience.  But he’d promised to obey.  He owed his allegiance to Heaven._

Dean and Castiel met each other’s eyes over Zachariah’s shoulder, but neither could hold it.  The connection was too much.  They were already too connected, too close.  Castiel seemed to be able to feel the sucking whirlwind of emotions that whipped through Dean, and it was too overwhelming.  He needed to get away.

 

 

* * *

 

Time had very little meaning now.  It was only BEFORE and then AFTER.  The in-between was simply suspension, waiting.  It was endurance, torture.  Even when Castiel was not physically present in the Green Room, he watched Dean pace.  He watched Dean inspect his surroundings, constantly looking for weapons and a way out and options, the way that any good hunter would.  And Dean Winchester was the best.

Castiel felt an ominous stirring in his Grace when he watched Dean lightly caress the carved angel and then simply, softly shove it off of its pedestal, sending it tumbling and _falling_ and shattering on the floor.  _It meant nothing.  Nothing.  Dean Winchester was simply a man, and Castiel was an angel._

Still, Castiel went to him, and when Dean asked for a favor, Castiel murmured “Anything you wish,” but he didn’t mean it.  He _couldn’t_ mean it.  Because Dean was dangerous.  And because something deep inside of Castiel _wanted_ to do as he asked.  That was the clearest sign that Castiel _shouldn’t._ So Castiel denied him, and evaded, and helped to keep him prisoner.  Because it was the will of Heaven, and of God, and Castiel was a good soldier, a good son.

But then… something changed.  So simply.  Dean, frustrated and afraid, and desperate to save his brother, snarled at Zachariah, Castiel’s superior, “Tell me something.  Where’s God in all this?”

“God?”  Zachariah asked, his Grace flaring then going impossibly cold.  “God has left the building.”

And Castiel was suddenly lost.

 

* * *

 

 

As always when he felt…troubled, Castiel sought Revelation.  He hovered outside of the Green Room, still watching Dean Winchester, and he begged God for a sign of what he should do.  Zachariah had just said that God had nothing to do with the Apocalypse.  But… if not God, then who?

 

* * *

 

 

“What are you gonna do to Sam?”  Dean growled.  His soul was like a tornado, and Castiel had to fight to keep away from its pull.

“Nothing .  He’s going to do it to himself.”  He said the words, but he didn’t quite believe them anymore.  _Was_ he going to do this to himself?  Or had Heaven schemed to make it so?

 

 

* * *

 

 

Castiel begged God for answers, for a sign.  All he got in answer was Dean Winchester’s soul, reaching out for help of any kind.  Of course, Castiel heard each and every plea.  Some of them were directed toward God.  And some to anyone who might be listening.  Some were directed toward Castiel himself.  But most were just… thoughts, feelings, projected by Dean’s soul, and answered by Castiel’s Grace.

 

* * *

 

 

Finally, Castiel could bear it no longer and he went to Dean. 

“Why are you here, Cas?”  The words felt hollow and disappointed.

Castiel could not think of an adequate thing to say to this man he felt so tied to.  Whose soul he had gripped in Hell and pulled back to Earth.  The man who he’d breathed life back into.  The man whose soul he’d left a mark on, and who’d inadvertently left a mark on him as well.  Words weren’t enough.  Castiel swallowed, feeling distinctly like he was… drowning, or suffocating.  Like he was being pressed too tightly, once again.  “We’ve been through much together, you and I.  And I wanted to say I’m sorry it ended like this.”

“Sorry.”  Dean snarled, knowing that it wasn’t enough.  He struck Castiel across the face, then, lashing out with all the rage and desperation and betrayal he felt at the words.  Castiel allowed it, even turned his face at the blow so as not to break Dean’s hand.  Castiel felt the punch.  Physically, it did not hurt.  But otherwise… his Grace cried out at the strike, at what it meant.  At the look Dean gave him.

Dean begged with him, pleaded for Castiel to see the world his way, to help him.

“What is so worth saving?!”  Castiel demanded, feeling cornered.  “I see nothing but pain here.  I see inside you.”  And it was true.  He could see every piece of Dean, and there was so much pain, but there was more than that.  So much more.  And his throat stung at the lie.

Dean forced Castiel to meet his eyes, and it brought them too close.  Dangerously close.  Dean’s soul and Castiel’s Grace reached for each other across the meager physical distance.

 “This is simple, Cas.  No more crap about being a good soldier.  There is a right and there is a wrong here, and you know it.” 

Castiel tried to turn away, to get away from the words, and the light of Dean’s soul, because it was all too much and he couldn’t bear it.  But Dean grabbed Castiel, and spun him around.  Castiel was so lost to Dean that he allowed himself to be moved.  He _wanted_ this, even as he feared it.  _Give me a reason.  Please._

Dean launched accusation after accusation at him, and brought up Castiel’s disgrace.  He said “You were going to warn me once, weren’t you?”  And behind his eyes, Castiel saw a sanitized white room with bright lights, and angels gathered ‘round, tearing at his Grace.  He shuddered.

“Help me now, please.”  Dean begged, and the words had claws that tore into Castiel.

“What would you have me do?”  He meant it a lot more this time.

Dean begged for his help, saying that they needed to get to Sam, to stop him, to save him, to save the whole world.  Just beyond the Green Room, Castiel could feel Zachariah approaching, knew that he was listening.

Castiel refused.

“You spineless, soulless, son of a bitch.  What do you care about dying?!”  Dean’s words were like knives.  “You’re already dead.”  _No, it isn’t true._   “We’re done.”  _No!_

“Dean.”  The word was all that Castiel could muster, was his own plea, though for what he could not say.  All of Heaven trembled at the word, anxious, waiting.

“We’re done.”  Dean said.  The words broke something inside the both of them.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Castiel knelt and issued plea after plea to God.  The other angels were agitated by his noise.  He got no other answer.  Below, in the Green Room, Dean’s soul wept.

 

* * *

 

 

 

_This is blasphemy.  This is betrayal.  This is against the will of Heaven and God.  This is a sin.  It’s prideful and foolish.  This is worse than what Lucifer did.  I shouldn’t be doing this.  I shouldn’t be doing this.  I can still turn back.  It’s not too late.  I’m a good soldier.  A good son.  I’m a good angel.  I serve God.  I serve God.  I serve God._

_DEAN._

It was easy to break into the Green Room, easy to slip through Zachariah’s new wards and defenses.  Easy to surprise Dean and let him know, through a look alone, that something inside him had changed.  The sigils were simple.  Cutting himself caused no pain.  Still, he felt a zing of fear pulse through his being when Zachariah stormed into the room, shouting “Castiel!  Would you mind explaining just what the hell you’re doing?!”  But instead of answering him, Castiel banished him.  Then he returned the demon blade to Dean.  He told Dean all of the truth that he knew, and explained how to stop Sam, and what had to be done. 

_God, forgive me this disobedience.  But I think that Dean is right.  Dean is the Righteous Man, and he… he can save us.  You have not answered me.  And I have to trust in something.  And so I trust in Dean Winchester.  Because his soul is the purest I’ve ever known.  And he…._

In the gloom of Chuck Shurley’s home, the Prophet faced the two of them, the human and the disobedient angel, and he said “You guys aren’t supposed to be in this story.

And Castiel surprised himself when he said, “Yeah, well, we’re making it up as we go.”  And he felt a surge of rightness inside of him, and answering pride and appreciation from Dean.

It was short-lived, though.  The house was suddenly suffused with a bright, terrifying light, the force of which shook the earth itself.  The wrath of Heaven was upon them.

Castiel’s Grace quivered at the attention, but he’d made his choice, now.  He’d chosen Dean.  And so he straightened himself like the warrior he was and said “It’s the archangel!  I’ll hold him off.  I’ll hold them all off!  Just stop Sam!”  And then he sent Dean to exactly where he needed to be, and then he found himself alone except for the Prophet, who stood next to him.  And he waited to be obliterated, though for the very first time since he could remember, he felt utterly right and at peace.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Dean was there.  He almost made it.  He almost stopped Sam, and they almost succeeded.  They killed Ruby, and they killed Lilith.  But Dean was still too late.  He arrived just in time to witness the bright light of an angel’s Grace begin to pour from the floor of the chapel.  Lucifer.  Lucifer was coming.

Through the fear and the panic, and the pain, and the way that Sam clung to him as only a desperate younger brother could, still, somewhere deep in his soul, Dean felt Castiel die.


	24. Sympathy for the Devil

 

 

There was a bright light, and then there was nothing.

 

* * *

 

 

“We need to find Cas.”  Dean muttered from behind the wheel of the rental car.  It wasn’t Baby, wasn’t fast enough, but it would get them to their destination, and he just hoped that they wouldn’t be too late.  He ached.  Beside him, his brother sat, whole and alive.  And Dean himself was alive.  But he couldn’t forget the flash of light that meant that Lucifer walked free again.  And he couldn’t forget the pain that had lanced through the very heart of him when it had happened.  But it had felt like something more, like something had been torn out of him.  And the mark on his shoulder, the handprint that Castiel had left behind, it… burned.

When they arrived at Chuck’s house, they found the place in disarray.  Furniture was toppled, papers destroyed.  Blood spattered everything in the kitchen, and Dean felt his heart clench. 

When Chuck came out of the shadows, wielding a plunger of all things to protect himself with, Dean’s stomach dropped.  He focused on the man so that he wouldn’t have to look at the destruction of the house.

“Where’s Cas?”  He said it like a demand, but his pulse was in his ears.  All he could hear was his blood.  All he could see was….

“He’s dead.  Or gone.  The archangel smote the crap out of him.”

His head went fuzzy, and the only thing he heard for a while after that was a ringing in his ears.  He felt like he was gonna puke.  All that blood.  _Cas…._

Chuck must have kept talking, because he and Sam were watching Dean when he finally said “Cas, you stupid bastard.”  But the words weren’t angry, they were full of pain and a sharp disbelief.

“Stupid?”  Sam asked, sounding offended on the angel’s behalf.  “He was trying to help us.”

“Yeah, exactly.”  _Because I asked him to.  I begged him.  I convinced him.  He disobeyed.  He rebelled against_ Heaven, _for me.  And now he’s dead.  I was only really starting to understand… and now he’s dead.  Because of me._

But Dean’s grief and guilt were put on hold then, because Zachariah showed up.  And all Dean could feel was rage.

The smarmy dick loved to hear himself talk.  He spoke of the Apocalypse like it was spilled milk, and he told the Winchesters to get over it.  To move on.  Dean heard him, but his mind was elsewhere.

Dean watched, eyes absorbing every tiny detail, as Zachariah swiped a finger through a splash of blood on the back of a kitchen chair.  That was Cas’s blood.  Dean’s jaw clenched.  _He was better than you.  He was better than all of you.  You won’t get away with this._

Zachariah suddenly paused in his monologue, his eyes narrowing at Dean’s hand.  “You’re bleeding.”

 “Yeah, a little insurance policy in case you dicks showed up.”  Dean snarled.  And then he smacked his bloody hand against the sigil he’d drawn on the door, and he watched, darkly satisfied, as the angels dissolved in a flash of light.  “Learned that from my friend Cas, you son of a bitch.”

And as he said the words, Dean knew it was true.  It might be too late now, but something had changed between them.  He was no longer just an angel.  No longer even just the angel that had braved Hell for Dean, and rescued him.  Not even the angel who had rebuilt his body and brought him back to life.  Who had helped him, and had faith in him.  No.  Cas was something more now, even if he was dead.  He was Dean’s friend.  One of the first real friends that Dean had ever had.  He’d given his life for Dean, and for Sam, and Dean would never forget that.

 

* * *

 

 

There was nothing.  And then there was… something.  The Heavenly Host wailed, they trembled.  All of Heaven felt the flash of something divine, something they had not felt since Creation.  They clamored and shrieked and sought Revelation.  But there was no answer.

 

* * *

 

 

When Dean and Sam arrived at John Winchester’s old storage unit, they found dead demons, along with Zachariah and his angel cronies waiting for them.  Like most villains, Zachariah loved to monologue, and he loved the big reveal.  So Dean listened, and he looked for a way out, while Zachariah explained that Dean himself was the “Michael Sword,” or more accurately, Michael’s vessel.  But he finished his speech with, “You’re just a human, Dean.”

Maybe he _was_ just a human, but the angels still needed his consent to use him.  And Dean wouldn’t give him what he wanted.  So Zachariah broke Sam’s legs.  Then he promised to cripple Bobby for the rest of his life.  He gave Dean stomach cancer.  He took Sam’s lungs.  And he smiled while he did all of it, sing-songing, “Are we having fun yet?  You’re going to say yes, Dean.”

“Just kill us,” Dean gasped, around a mouthful of his own blood.  Oh, God, he was dying again.  _No, I can’t go back.  Can’t go back to the Pit.  I can’t do it again.  Please, please, I can’t go back._

“Kill you?”  Zachariah sneered.  “No, I’m just getting started.”

And then a blaze of impossibly hot, white light filled the room, and an angel shrieked.  From his place on the floor, where he lay dying, Dean watched Cas battle with his brothers.  He was a whirl of tan and silver, his blue eyes flashing with holy fire.  He sliced through the other angels without hesitation, without mercy, epic, terrifying.  Dean’s eyes teared unwillingly from the flash of Grace, but his heart leapt wildly, and a soft fire lit him from the handprint on his shoulder.  _CAS!!!_

Finally, Cas whirled on Zachariah, and Dean could see the fear plain as day on the other angel’s face.

“How are you…?”  Zachariah couldn’t even say the word.

 “Alive?”  Cas growled.  “It’s a good question.  How did these two end up on that plane?  Another good question.  Because the angels didn’t do it.  We both know the answer, don’t we?”

Something flickered through Zachariah’s eyes and Dean could tell he was terrified.  “No, that’s not possible.”

Cas had never looked so frightening, or so alive.  “It scares you.  Well, it should.”  He narrowed his eyes at his former superior.  “Now put these boys back together and go.  I won’t ask twice.”  The room shook with the fury in his voice.  Zachariah didn’t hesitate.  Suddenly Dean’s pain disappeared, and Sam could breathe again, and Zachariah was gone.   They pushed themselves to their feet and beheld the angel.  Cas strode up to them, and seemed to look within them.   “You two need to be more careful.”

He explained what had happened, and that Lucifer would be coming for them.  The Winchesters weren’t safe, not from anyone now.  And then Cas laid his hands on their chests, and for a moment Dean felt gentle warmth and peace suffuse his whole being, before it turned to searing pain, and Cas stepped back, explaining he’d just carved Enochian sigils into their ribs so that they could not be traced.  No angel would ever be able to find them.  Dean knew that meant not even Cas.  _I wonder if that extends to dreams, too._

And then Sam asked the question that Dean couldn’t find the courage to: “Hey Cas… were you really dead?”

“Yes.”

“Then how are you back?”

But instead of answering, Cas simply disappeared.

 

* * *

 

 

The angels whispered, and they trembled, and a flutter went through them like a gale.  The disturbance carried with it the name of a single, impossible angel: _Castiel._

**Author's Note:**

> As always, kudos are appreciated, but comments give me life. Also, you can find me here: http://realhunterswearplaid.tumblr.com/


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